


like a wilted sunflower

by CloudDreamer



Series: a long rotted bouquet [2]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Creepy Comfort, Dr Carmilla's A+ Parenting, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Nastya & Jonny siblings... good, Neglect, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma Bonding, non-consensual science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Any relief is temporary, and Nastya Rasputina can't even seem to take advantage of it when it comes.
Relationships: Dr Carmilla & Nastya Rasputina, Jonny d'Ville & Nastya Rasputina, The Aurora/Nastya Rasputina
Series: a long rotted bouquet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714564
Comments: 10
Kudos: 75
Collections: Stowaways' Shenanigans





	like a wilted sunflower

Doctor Carmilla is always watching. 

Even when she’s not there, she’s watching. Nastya can feel her. Hands in her hair, nails tearing through her flesh and opening her up to see the quicksilver she put there, saying she’s beautiful— Nastya can feel her. When there’s movement out of the corner of her eyes, her body stiffens. 

Jonny is loud. The Toy Soldier is loud. But Doctor Carmilla is only heard if she wants to be heard, and when she wants to be heard never seems to match up with when Nastya’s managed to finally catch her breath. When she think she might be safe, for one damned second. 

Jonny’s better at timing it, though he says her patterns have been different with Nastya around now. She tries not to think about him alone with her for centuries, and when Doctor Carmilla asks for one of them, either one, she puts herself first. 

Of course, he does the same thing, so that devolves into a fight every time where neither of them really want to win but can’t imagine letting the other bleed for them, again, and sometimes they take too long to decide so she’ll hurt them both. When that happens, she usually leaves them close enough so they can reach across the gap and hold hands tight. Nastya will never admit it, especially not where Doctor Carmilla can hear, but it’s easier when it’s both of them. 

(She hates that. She hates she's not strong enough to take it all. She hates how much she loves to hear his heartbeat, so loud and at such a strange rhythm, she hates she doesn't remember how a heart is supposed to sound when hers is so slow and Doctor Carmilla doesn't have one at all.) 

They know the sound of each other’s screams more than they know the shape of each other’s smile. 

She bites back when she can, but it’s always in the smallest ways. Ineffectual. If she goes too far, challenges Doctor Carmilla, draws too much attention to herself, then someone gets hurt. Aurora can hide them, shelter them, but she can’t stop her. She won’t— she knows as well as the rest of them that the longer they make Doctor Carmilla look, the worse it is. The longer she spends trapped in that laboratory, white walls, white ceiling, white spots in her vision, nothing for Aurora to do but watch, listen to her scream and scream for help that’s not coming. 

_She’s not here now._

She’s always here. 

Aurora is warm when Doctor Carmilla is gone. The door to her lab isn’t just locked; it’s impossible to find. Aurora doesn’t have hands to run through Nastya’s hair, to tug and pull her around like a mannequin, no icy fingers pushing her chin up to meet cold eyes. She doesn’t hunger for anything; she wants and yearns. Aurora is easy to read. She’s the sound of ticking gears and breath through the pipes; her thoughts always clear in the strings of code she shows to Nastya without any reservation. 

These moments, where Aurora’s heat settles deep into Nastya’s bones and safety is almost in her grasp, are ephemeral. Once upon a time, the first time she left them on Aurora alone, and they’d ran like hell, and they’d managed to breathe a sigh of relief, but then— 

Then she was there again, at their next gig, and she’d acted like nothing was wrong, like nothing had changed, until the music was over, and she was all hands again. All teeth and eyes, and Nastya trying so hard to keep the screams from escaping, breaking her teeth from the pressure of her jaw clamped tight and that smile like it was fine, that conversational tone, those _hands_ , so scarred and rough. 

They can’t get away from her. She’s inside them; she’s remade them. Not in her image, never in her image, but close enough. Sometimes Nastya wonders if her love of music is real, or if it’s something Doctor Carmilla built in her. She remembers her hands— _hers_ , not Doctor Carmilla’s— on the violin when she was younger and smaller. She remembers trying so hard to be good at it. If she was good, then they’d see her. They’d tell her she was doing a good job, and she’d smile her little gap toothed grin, feeling vaguely sick to her stomach as memories of her tutor’s voice play over and over again. 

Maybe she’s always been like this, desperate for affection and disgusted with herself for needing it. Despite everything, she leans into the touch. She’s like a sunflower, turning to whatever can give her warmth even when it burns. Especially when it burns. 

Doctor Carmilla’s not here now, but her presence hangs heavy like a shadow. Sometimes it’s worse, the moments when she’s gone and Nastya’s mind wanders to _what’s next_ , and she can’t even enjoy the semblance of freedom. The loosened chain still chafes against her skin, healing and breaking and healing and breaking, and she can’t breathe now, not until she hears the sound of Aurora’s whisper through the pipes, pulling her back into the now. 

She doesn't want to be in the now, not when memories let the hours slip away so easily, but she's terrified of losing time too. After all, the more she spends in that gray, the closer she is to Doctor Carmilla's return, closer to those _hands_ \-- 

and she's gone again.


End file.
